


watermelon sugar (high)

by hysteries



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Elias watches this all with a very disgusted grimace on his face, F/M, Gen, Idiots in Love, The Magnus Archives is actually a romcom, worm season aka season one pre-everything going horribly wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23123869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hysteries/pseuds/hysteries
Summary: She shoves a tissue towards his face. “Clean yourself up.” There’s a smile tugging at her lips, and when she looks up at him, he’s still smirking. She rubs furiously at her cheek. “If we go in back like this...”“Jon’ll think I jumped out of a cake, Martin’ll get all mopey and left out because he wasn’t there to see it, and Elias — I don’t want to know what that guy thinks.”[Tim, Sasha, a partnership, light trauma, a food fight, all in a day's work.]
Relationships: Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	watermelon sugar (high)

“You know, _Martin_ never tried to break my eardrums with his playlist _du jour_.”

It’s the two of them on the Tube again, erstwhile companions while their ever-present third hides away in the archives. After the Michael incident, Jon offered Sasha her own place downstairs. But there’s something wrong with that place. Her flat, for all the monsters it draws and heat it barely has, feels much safer than sharing a space with a load of cursed artifacts. Even if Jane Prentiss could break her door down with one rancid breath. 

It was her decision to keep it business as usual. With one archival assistant gone underground (literally), they need all hands on deck. It wasn’t her decision, though, to start up a partnership with Tim. No, that was all him, blundering into Jon’s office with a tank top on in the dead of winter, insisting that it’d be safer with two.

Doesn’t feel much safer when he’s literally trying to deafen her.

“Martin isn’t exactly known for his taste — in music or men.” His eyes are closed, making him look like some kind of sponge, trying to absorb the heavy bass. His knee bobs up and down, sporadically hitting hers. Sasha grits her teeth every time.

She tries another tactic. “When’s it going be my turn?”

He doesn’t budge an inch. “Definitely some time before hell freezes over.” 

“Dickhead,” is her concise answer, and even though he makes like he hasn’t heard, Sasha knows when Tim’s pressing back a smile.

“Why don’t you just enjoy the tunes?” She likes the way his voice slips over the word, like he’s savouring it.

“How can I enjoy something that‘s literally attacking my hearing?” 

At that, he moves. He’s in front of her, fiddling with a button on the side of the headphones he’s given her, and Sasha’s breath catches when a finger brushes a curl behind her ear. Tim’s eyes catch hers, and she stares back, and they’re just staring at each other on the scratchy blue seats of the Victoria Line.

He finishes lowering the volume and he’s gone with a wink, slouching back in his seat like they’re on holiday instead of going to visit a horrendous crime scene. “Better?” 

“Hardly.” She smiles, and the sudden tension dissipates. She can feel it slackening in the stale air.

“Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.” Almost on cue, the train screeches.

She copies his posture. “You might want to look into disc jockeying. Looks like you’re in the wrong line of work.” She kicks out her legs and knocks a boot against Tim’s before finally closing her eyes to copy him.

Almost instantly, the guitar screams in her ears, and Sasha jolts up in her seat. “You prick!” Tim is doubled over, head almost between his knees. She knows that, if he just moved a little, his thumb would be hovering over volume control. 

She shoves him lightly. “One day, when you least expect it, I’m going to get you back for that. You won’t see me coming.”

If he hears her threat, he gives no inclination. Just keeps laughing, going from the loud boom to the quiet, whistling sound he makes when something gets him good. She stares out the window ahead, into the dark. 

“Just you wait, Timothy A. Stoker.”

“What’s the A meant to stand for?” He chokes out somehow.

“Asshole.” That gets him going again, and his laughter’s got something contagious in it, because Sasha’s laughing too.

By the time they pull into Walthamstow Central, they’ve collected themselves. Hardly the detective team that Jon wants, but Tim’s not wheezing and Sasha’s smoothed her curls down, hopefully adding to the appearance of credibility. She gets up first and shoots out the open doors, expecting him to keep up.

Even with his legs, longer and more muscular than her own, he trails behind. “S’ not a race, Sash.”

The possibility of a living witness dangles enticingly in front of her, and she’s not sure Tim would understand that lure. The way these stories go, at any moment, the statement-giver could disappear, falling like sand through her fingers. She can’t let this one vanish into the ether.

She turns back to him. “Why not?” As a smile spreads across her face, a matching one lands on Tim’s, and suddenly, he’s powering up the stairs at twice the speed. 

“You haven’t got the address!” Sasha huffs. Tim doesn’t turn, and so she holds down her rucksack and gets to the chase. 

“Well, that was certainly macabre.” When he doesn’t so much as crack a grin, Sasha presses on. “Get it? Like _la danse macabre_?” She does her very best posh French accent, inspired partially by Elias. Just last week, the two of them were near-tears over his pronunciation of _Gérard_.

Tim doesn’t answer. 

It’d been just like Jon had said in his spooky-monologue voice when he’d briefed her. A dance class that couldn’t stop, feet flying and limbs flailing until they all fell off. The Dancing Plague, only this time, it was a bunch of singles and the dancers had moved so fast that they stripped off their own skin.

The sole survivor was the receptionist, who went to check on the tango class after hearing noises, and wound up hospitalized for two years. She spoke to Sasha in trembling whispers, as if afraid someone was listening in. As if the shadow that’d collected those tattered skins might reappear. 

When she’d gotten to the worst of it, flesh made bare and vocal cords played like a violin, Sasha looked over at Tim and saw him almost doubled over. His face was a peculiar shade of white-green, with red mottled down his neck. His hands squeezed into fists and he stared intently at the witness. The expression on his face had sent a twist into her stomach, sharp and painful. It was so entirely unlike Tim that, for the rest of the conversation, she kept glancing over at him. Convinced that, if she didn’t look, he might just vanish.

Now that they’re back outside, that feeling of temporality dissipates. He isn’t going to disappear, and Sasha certainly isn’t going to either. All there is to do is to call him back to her.

“Sorry. Bad joke.” 

Bad joke of the ilk Tim would crack, if he wasn’t still frowning at some invisible monster.

Sasha takes a sharp turn away from the station, instead moving towards the bridge over the Overground tracks. Again, she doesn’t wait for Tim to follow — she doesn’t need to.

“Tube’s over there.” Tim’s voice is his own, even if it’s quieter than she’s ever heard it, and some of the tension in Sasha’s shoulders slackens. He hasn’t been body-swapped, then.

“I know. I want chocolate.” 

Tim catches up and slots himself next to her so they're almost walking in tandem. Sasha doesn’t need to look over to feel his confusion. “We’ve earned it, I figure.”

He’s quiet again. Sasha picks up the pace. She leads them to a café with red leather booths, where she deposits Tim before heading up to order them two hot chocolates at the till. Extra whipped cream for him, mint syrup for her. She gets a towering slice of carrot cake, and the man at the counter laughs as he watches her carefully balance it all on the tray. With steady hands, she carries it over to Tim, and deposits the spread in front of him.

“Dig in!” She takes her own towering mug. “Wait—” Almost knocking it over in her hurry, she reaches forward to snag the cake. “This is for me.”

He’s looking better now. Still sallow, but the splotching is gone, and he takes his own hot chocolate in both his hands. 

“Cheers!” Sasha hams it up, carefully clicking her mug against his. She takes a long, contented sip, the chocolate working to warm the chill that the witness had placed inside of her. The world might be filled with horrors and monsters and evil, but it also has chocolate, and that’s got to mean something. 

She’s not counting down the minutes (four and a half) until Tim speaks again. When he does, he sounds much better, even with whipped cream coating his throat. Which gives his tone a thick consistency, because he’s eaten all of it off of the chocolate before even taking a sip. “Give it here.”

“Wha—” Sasha starts, but he’s already reaching over and sticking his finger into the icing of her cake. “Tim, no!”

He flashes her a wane smile. “Afraid I’ll get some kind of ghoulish bacteria in it?”

“Yes, actually! And I think, what with Prentiss and everything, you should understand why!”

“Plenty of people would love to swap germs with me, Sash. Count yourself lucky.” 

She grimaces, mouth lopsided and nose crinkled, if only to keep herself from smiling. He’s finding his way back.

“I categorically do not and would not.”

He winks. “If you say so.”

She shakes her head, and just like that, they’re falling back into it. The same easy, ebbing flow perfected over years.

“The server asked if you were single. Told him you were taken by parasites.” 

“Harsh.” He cranes his neck as if to peer at the server over the thicket of Sasha’s hair. “Oh, he’s not bad, is he?”

“Quite cute, but it’s not gonna happen. He wasn’t keen on the whole worm infestation thing.” 

She can tell that Tim’s battling it out in his head. Go and pull the barista, or stay and torture Sasha by eating her cake. She knows exactly what he’ll pick.

“Didn’t even get me a spare fork?”

“It’s my cake.” The lack of utensil doesn’t stop him again, and his finger takes another swipe at her plate. “Tim! Seriously!”

“The way you say my name...” His voice is garbled by the icing, and made all the more unintelligible by the high-pitched whine he puts in. “ _Tiiiiiiiim_! It’s sweet.”

Chocolate-unrelated heat rises up Sasha’s neck. She decides to ignore it. “Go get your own cake.”

“But I like yours.” He licks white icing off his pinky, and it’s so obvious that Sasha rolls her eyes as elaborately as she can.

“Try that on the barista. It’d have a much higher chance of success.” 

He snorts and colour comes back to his cheeks. There’s a brief flash of golden joy — until he buries his finger in the icing again. She whips forward, seizing onto his hand. “Keep it up and you’ll lose it.”

It was an impulsive move, and Sasha realizes too late that it was the wrong one. Tim’s already wiggles out of her grip, and he smears an icing covered finger across her mouth. He settles back into his seat in a matter of seconds, a pleased, cat-ate-the canary smirk on his face. “Sorry Sash, but sharing is caring.”

This is the point where she should snark back, or lick the icing off her lips, or mash what’s left of her cake into his face. Sasha does none of the above. Carefully, she pokes her tongue out to get the worst of it away, and raises an eyebrow. “I take it you’re ready to share, then?” 

The grin freezes on his face, turning into something of a grimace. He realizes too late that he’s fallen right into her trap. 

“The way I see it, you’ve got two options. Let us know why you turned into Joe Spooky back there or...” Her voice dips softly into kindness, the Northern accent padding her words. “It’s cake in your face.”

It seems to Sasha that he really considers it for a few seconds. His forehead gets the creased look it does when he’s trying to read Jon’s notes and his eyes seem darker, somehow. She waits for an answer, hands pressed primly against the table.

It’s months of teamwork that’s given them a particular strength of wavelength. Sasha doesn’t need to tell Tim that she’ll drop it if he wants her to. He doesn’t need to tell her that whatever’s going on, he isn’t ready to share. She feels, sure as she does the plastic counter-top under her fingers, everything that’s left unsaid. 

A switch flips, and the grin is back. “If you wanted to put your cake in Joe Spooky’s face, you only had to ask nicely.” 

“Ha ha,” she deadpans. Disappointment is covered by the grin across her face at the opportunity to take her revenge. Carefully, Sasha looks around the room. The barista’s making drinks, the families around them occupied by themselves, and they’re entirely ignored.

She takes the plate carefully into her hand.

“Wait, you were joking, right? Sasha, that was a joke —” But it’s too late, and he recognizes that because he doesn’t move away. She presses the plate gently against his cheek and smears it. She gets him good; there’s brown cake and white icing alongside the sharp line his jaw, spreading up. And when she’s done, Sasha’s laughing so hard that she doesn’t notice their newfound audience.

“You two — out!” The barista shouts while Tim takes her hand. “Couple of children...” is all that she hears over her laughter, and then Tim’s pulling at her arm, and she’s chasing after him.

They’re walking outside now, the late afternoon sun so warm that Sasha can feel it seeping through her skin. Tim’s got her hand — she wonders if he realizes it. Wonders if that’s got something to do with the warmth she feels.

“Hey!” He looks over, and the warmth in her blood sings. She thinks about Jane Prentiss' statement, about what sings to her, and comes to a decision. She reaches over to poke at the cake-covered cheek. “You’ve got something on your face.”

They’re both laughing again, Sasha nearly doubled-over with it, and her hand’s still on his face. She takes her finger back and pops it into her mouth, the only bit of her cake she’s actually been able to taste.

He’s still looking at her. It’s the same as on the Tube, and it’s as hot as the Sun, and in the residue of terror and giggles, Sasha is on top of the world. This time, she wants him to keep staring at her like that.

It occurs to her then that she never wants to see Tim that shade of white-green. That, if she could, she’d have him smile at her like that forever.

Hm.

“Tim?” 

He nods. “Yeah?”

He’s not laughing anymore. She’s grinning, ear to ear. “How strange would it be if I kissed you?” She asks him probing my, scientifically. As if testing out a hypothesis. In the glorious sunlight, it seems silly that the thought didn’t occur to her until today.

He lets out something more complicated than a breath, and it’s like he’s laughing when his hand comes up to brush her face. “The least strange thing that’s happened to us on this job, Sash.”

Sasha barely waits for him to finish his quip before she’s on her toes and pressing her lips against his. He tastes like sunshine and carrot cake, or maybe she does. The rest of her body floods with that same warmth. Somehow, she’d always known he’d be sweet. 

Her hands are sticky with icing as they twine around his neck, and it’s a concentrated effort not to stick them in his hair — until, fuck it, he’ll have to restyle the sticky strands in the archives. And she’s always loved touching it, that glossy dark hair that takes more of Tim’s focus than his actual work. 

When they pull apart, she’s not breathing right. It gets even worse when he leans in close and brushes his mouth across her cheek before whispering, “Next time, you don’t have to ask,” and Sasha thinks she might stop breathing entirely.

He takes a step back and smiles. Bright, cheeky. No trace of garish green left. Just Tim in the waning sunlight. “Sweet.”

Is he... ? “Ew,” she answers, promptly realizing that he’s referring to the cake. Which is now properly smeared across her cheek too, sticky where he brushed his face. “Hang on.”

She swings her rucksack over her shoulder and begins to dig through the books and the notes until she finds her tissues. Tim snorts. “You’ve got the entire archives in there, haven’t you?” He peers over her shoulder, past the open zipper. “Alright in there?

She shoves a tissue towards his face. “Clean yourself up.” There’s a smile tugging at her lips, and when she looks up at him, he’s still smirking. She rubs furiously at her cheek. “If we go in back like this...”

“Jon’ll think I jumped out of a cake, Martin’ll get all mopey and left out because he wasn’t there to see it, and Elias — I don’t want to know what that guy thinks.”

“Nothing good,” Sasha finishes offhandedly. When she runs her hand over her cheek, it comes away clean. Good enough. She closes the space between herself and Tim again to help with his mess, slowly tracing the tissue from his jawline up his cheekbone. There’s red there, a rosy colour she’s never seen his neck go before. Is it a blush?

He wiggles his eyebrows. “Shut up,” she warns, but too late.

“This an invitation for round two?”

“Tim! We’re working and if we want anybody to take us seriously —” Just as he starts to put his hands up in surrender, she leans forward and presses her lips to his in a quick peck. 

It’s nice. Easy. They could’ve been doing this all along and now, it seems absurd to Sasha that they hadn’t been.

She’s the one to step away this time, and she tugs his hand to follow her. “Maybe.” Before either one of them can push it, she swings her sack over her back again. “Come along. They’re expecting us back eventually.”

He’s lanky enough that, when he drags his feet, he gives a decent amount of resistance. But then all Sasha has to do is drop his hand, and he’s racing to catch up for her. When he does, he clasps her hand again and twines their fingers together.

That’s nice and new too. She squeezes. Looks ahead, keeps her voice casual. “I’ve got all the notes, so if you want to go ahead with the hospital confirmation, I’ll tell John what she saw.”

After a beat, he squeezes back. “Alright.” There’s a moment of quiet. “Thanks, Sash.”

The softness of his voice around her name sends heat up her neck again. It’s a swap of their predefined roles, Tim in front of the computer and Sasha taking charge of the testimony, but she can’t imagine him trying to repeat the story back to Jon. Not without that green colour coming back, and definitely not without causing a petty squabble that’ll leave Martin in shambles — of the sort that only resolves itself with Sasha getting them all absolutely smashed and they can’t even do that now that Martin’s in quarantine. 

“Helpless without me, you’d be.” She keeps it chipper, light. Just like Tim, just for Tim.

He laughs, something deep in his chest. “You’ve got no idea.”

They reach the stairs back into the Tube. Reality looms ahead, dirt-caked stairs and a crowded tunnel. Tim’s hand is still in hers. 

She doesn’t need to ask him not to tell the others and he doesn’t need to ask her. It’s that partnership, the same connection that propelled her forward into kissing him. Sasha’s always loved reading, and Tim’s her favourite book.

“Back to the Temple of Doom it is, then.” His voice is quieter now.

Sasha catches his eye. She smiles. “After forty minutes on the Victoria line, yeah.”

Tim’s expression starts to mirror hers. “Forty minutes is a lot of time.”

“Plenty, if you know how to use it.” 

He chuckles, and Sasha’s insides twist pleasantly. His thumb traces something on the outside of her palm.

“But I’m picking the music on the way back.” Her smile turns sharper, into a challenge.

Tim’s laughing again. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“I know.”

They stand there, both smiling at each other. They must look like dopes, utter tossers, like a pair of grab-hands lovebirds who haven’t just listened to the story of a massacre. 

(All in a day’s work.)

“Fine.” His answering grin bares his white teeth, corners deep. “Race you back down.”

Then he’s off, and Sasha’s scrambling behind him, still half-woozy. “Cheat! I wasn’t ready!” She tosses her bag over the other shoulder and takes off behind him.

When they get back, pink-cheeked and still laughing, all Jon does is frown. “I sent you out on a job — did you happen to get any work done at all?”

Sasha stays stoic while Tim snickers to himself. “Got your story right here, boss.” 

Jon stares hard before acquiescing and motioning her into his office. She follows him obediently, sparing one glance over at Tim.

Who winks at her and presses his hand against his ear. _Call me_ , he mouths.

Sasha rolls her eyes and marches into the Archivist’s office, sunshine still singing in her veins, consuming her. Feeling utterly, completely, unflinchingly alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Bold of Jonny Sims to create the most doomed relationship of all time, only briefly mention them in past tense, and not to expect me to hyperfixate on them.


End file.
